inside them still
the blue sky, still the dream
of brave, and strong, and free.
All you didn’t say
in these birds with endless softness
with nothing
to uphold, nothing
to defend.
Sadness is me
plus the birds
plus their flight
and grace
in september, in bergamo
tucked in a corner of an arcade and one
pebble feather, brushed
like the cornfield.
When he himself
became the song
and the sung to
and it fell, it fell on me.
